The Death of Dulgath (33 page)

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Christopher said with deep-breathed pride.

Of course it is: it’s mine. A mother always sees her children as beautiful.

He walked alongside Rissa Lyn. As they strolled aimlessly through the tall grass, he took hold of her hand. She stopped, stiffening at his touch, then stared at him as if he’d pulled a knife.

“Relax.” He smiled, and, bringing her hand up slowly, kissed the back. “I just wanted to thank you.”

The fear in her eyes was replaced by confusion.

“You did very well,” he told her, and meant it.

Shervin Gerami had scared him, so he would’ve expected Rissa Lyn to be reduced to a sobbing mess. “You were very brave—courageous even.”

He saw a smile fighting onto her face. “I want to thank you, Your Lordship. I’ve been so afraid of that
thing,
and being the only one who knew…well, it was difficult.”

“Call me Christopher.”

Her eyes went large. “Oh no, sir—I couldn’t!”

Okay, so perhaps that was asking too much.

Rissa Lyn wasn’t a child; she’d spent years as a servant. Christopher might as well have asked her to fly. Letting go of her hand, he held up his own and spread his palms. “That’s fine. I just wanted to show my appreciation for all you’ve done.”

“It’s you that’s doing it, sir.” She shook her head as a look of dismay descended. “You are the only one to believe me. The only one—and I didn’t even think you did, not at first. To be honest, I was frightened of you.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Christopher resumed walking, causing her to follow. “I was just so disturbed by that painting.”

“Oh, I can understand that—shoot and sugar I can. That painting scared me, too. Seeing what awful thing was truly behind that pretty face was horrible. So no, sir, I won’t be holding that against you at all, sir.”

“Thank you, Rissa Lyn.” He took hold of her hand again. This time she didn’t flinch, didn’t stiffen. She blushed. “Who were these others who didn’t believe you?”

“Julia, the head maid. I went to her right after the lady
recovered
. I was so terribly frightened, hysterical and not making much sense. She said I was just imagining things. That seeing Lady Dulgath mangled and bloody was making me imagine all kinds of old wives’ tales about ghost, ghouls, and demons. For a long time, I believed her. But as the years passed, I knew it was me who had been right all along. I could tell because Lady Dulgath changed. Folk said she became sober from nearly dying, but I knew the truth. Nysa Dulgath had died, and something else had taken over her body, walking and talking through it.”

She squeezed his hand.

“I don’t like to look into her eyes, but when I do, I can see
it
looking back. It scares me near to fainting sometimes, honest it does.”

“Who else have you told?”

“Just Mister Sherwood. After seeing his painting, I thought he would understand. He was such a good man, and I was afraid she’d do something awful to him. And of course she did, didn’t she? I feel so guilty about cursing him just before he went to—and then he disappeared. But he didn’t believe me, either. No one believed me.”

“I believed you,” Christopher said, looking in her eyes and offering a sympathetic smile.

She smiled back, no fighting it this time. Her lips trembled, and tears spilled down, the wind streaking them at angles. “Oh, sir!” she whimpered. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted someone to tell me that, to let me know I’m not crazy.”

He reached out and wrapped his arms around the woman, pulling her to his chest, letting her cry. Knox was back at the wagon, checking the front hooves of the offside horse. The sheriff glanced over once then resumed hunting for stones.

When Rissa Lyn slowed her sobs, Christopher said, “Look out there, Rissa Lyn.”

She pulled back and wiped her eyes clear, then she followed his line of sight and faced the cliff and the sea below.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “Makes everything else seem small and insignificant, because looking out there you can see eternity, can’t you, Rissa Lyn?”

“Yes, I suppose I—”

Christopher gave her a good solid shove. Rissa Lyn was light and not possessed of any great sense of balance. She went right off the edge of the cliff with no trouble at all. The entire moment was over so quickly. She just disappeared, although her wails did trail behind her for a few seconds, fading in pitch and volume. One minute she was there, and the next Rissa Lyn was gone, as if she’d never existed. All it took was a little shove.

If only all my troubles could be dealt with so easily.

Christopher inched up and peered over the edge. He spotted her body. She must have missed the rocks and hit the shallow surf. A wave came in and threw her corpse against the rocks then sucked it out again. Christopher watched as this happened three more times. Then any trace of Rissa Lyn disappeared just as Sherwood had.

I do so love the sea.

Christopher strongly suspected Rissa Lyn had been in love with Sherwood Stow.

Now at least they can be together. Of course, he’s up the coast a bit.
He imagined that Sherwood’s ghost and Rissa Lyn’s might wander those craggy shores for eternity and never meet. “How tragic would that be?” he asked the wind, and then walked back to the wagon.

“Horse all right?” he inquired of Knox.

“Thought she was favoring the left, but it looks fine.”

Knox climbed back on the wagon, and Christopher joined him. Throwing the brake off and jiggling the reins, they continued on their way.

Chapter Eighteen
Broken Bones

Hadrian, Royce, and Scarlett rode back in Wagner’s buckboard after pouring out the poisoned beer to lighten the load. On Royce’s suggestion, they kept one full,
just in case.
What he’d meant by that Hadrian didn’t know—didn’t think he wanted to find out.

They’d cleaned up everything down to the splinters left by the broken keg lid and stuffed it all—bodies included—into the prison wagon, which they drove into the trees well off the road. The slaver’s horses were unhitched and tied to the back of the beer wagon. With luck, no one would come looking for the men or their animals. According to Royce, slavers working for Manzant were independent freelance abductors. If anyone did come looking for them, odds were against it being anytime soon.

Royce’s knowledge about slavers and Manzant reminded Hadrian of something Scarlett had said while Royce had her pinned against the side of the wagon. At the time, Hadrian was concerned he might kill her. Later, as they bounced their way back toward Dulgath, Hadrian had the time to remember.

“What did you mean when you said Manzant couldn’t hold Royce?” he asked Scarlett, who sat beside him on the bench, driving the team. The horses had been driven hard to catch up with the slavers, and she was giving them an easy plod back for succeeding.

Hadrian looked over his shoulder to where Royce reclined on the bed of the cart, his hands resting carefully in his lap. “Were you in Manzant?”

Scarlett raised her eyebrows in surprise but didn’t say a word.

“You already know that,” Royce said.

“I do?”

Hadrian thought a moment and realized he did remember something. He’d been introduced to Royce by a professor at Sheridan University, and at the time Arcadius had mentioned a prison where he had found Royce. He couldn’t recall the name of the place. “That was three years ago. You expected me to remember?”

Royce reached up with his better hand and tugged his hood over his head. “Taking a nap.”

“Did you ever tell me why you were there?”

“Sleeping now.”

“Did you mention what you did after you got out?”

“Hand hurts. Leave me alone.”

Hadrian frowned, then glared at Scarlett.

“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’m not getting in the middle of this.”

They traveled until well after dark, then pulled clear of the road. Royce continued to sleep in the wagon while Scarlett and Hadrian bedded down beneath it, using blankets taken from the slavers. Six men—six blankets. This left them extras to place underneath and to use as pillows.

“You didn’t happen to bring anything to eat, did you?” Hadrian asked, wadding up a blanket behind his head. The two lay side by side beneath the axle with the wheels flanking them. “I’m starving.”

“Was in sort of a hurry,” she said, pulling the blanket up to her neck even though it wasn’t cold. “When I came to work, Wag said you guys had been grabbed up.”

She wiggled a bit, then pulled a rock out from underneath. “Then I had to make the poison. Don’t have that stuff lying about, you know? And I had to get it in the barrels and roll them on the wagon.”

“You did all that yourself?”

“No, Gill and Brett got the wagon hitched. Tasha helped with brewing the poison, and Wag rolled out his beer—was real sad about that—you would’ve thought I asked him to kill his dog. Brook and Clem helped get the barrels up on the buckboard.”

“Bull Neck and Orange Tunic?”

“That’s them. Nice guys when you get to know them, all of them, really. ’Course Brook’s still mad at me, but he’ll get over it about the same time as his leg heals.”

“
You
stabbed him? I thought Royce did that.”

She shrugged. “Seemed like the thing to do at the time. Anyway, given my late start, you’ll forgive me if I forgot to pack up supplies for a cookout.” She dropped her head onto her blanket pillow with an exhausted huff.

The horses, which were tied up to a stand of birch trees a few yards away, loudly ripped up grass, shifting their feet and whipping their tails. Crickets and katydids trilled, and a soft breeze made that comforting rain sound again as it brushed the fields.

“Thank you,” Hadrian said.

“I didn’t do it for you.” Scarlett stretched and yawned at the same time. “I did it for me. So I wouldn’t have to worry about Royce. I told you that.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

Hadrian looked up at the underside of the wagon, where bits of mud and old grass had gotten stuck.

“It had nothing to do with you,” Scarlett said with more force, more volume.

“We should get some sleep,” he told her. “Royce will be waking us before dawn. He does that—like he can hear the sun or something.”

They lay together, listening to the night. He heard her breathing, soft and steady—a nice sound. He was tempted to touch her, reach out blindly with his fingers searching for hers. He didn’t. She might get spooked and take her blankets and leave. Be a pretty poor way of thanking her for saving his life.

When he turned to sleep on his side, the pain stabbed him. He let out a grunt and set his shoulders on the grass again. He hated sleeping on his back.

“Need to have that wrapped up,” she whispered.

“What I need is a stiff drink that isn’t laced with something for a change.”

“And sleep,” she said. “You need that, too.”

Hadrian took a deep breath and sighed. “Good night, Scarlett Dodge.”

“Good night, Dog-with-a-Ball.”

Hadrian chuckled, which caused his side to ache. “Don’t do that.”

“You deserve it.” Scarlett turned over on her side, her back to him. “And I didn’t do it for you.”

Yes, you did,
he repeated to himself, but let it go with that.

Brecken Dale hadn’t changed. Not that Hadrian expected it would in the few days they’d been gone. The thought was larger than that; Hadrian didn’t think the dale ever changed. Leaves might turn color and fall, snow might blanket fields, and the names of people and some of their faces might be different, but the dale remained as it always had been. He saw all this as they came down the road, as he got a clear bird’s-eye view of the village from the trail above.

Timeless
was the first word that popped into his mind.
Eternal
was another.

Why he thought that was harder to nail down. Then he realized that he saw no forgotten foundations of abandoned buildings, no blackened husk of a burned-out mill or barn, no grass-overgrown cart or wagon orphaned in a pasture. No fallow fields, either.

Hadrian wasn’t a farmer, but he’d grown up with them and knew that a third of the land had to rest for a season or face exhaustion. Not so in Dulgath. Pastures looked to be permanent, and while every inch of cultivated land was sown, it all thrived. Rules that governed the rest of the world didn’t seem to apply here. Hadrian hadn’t seen any construction, either. In Medford, scaffolds were everywhere as buildings went up or came down. Bridges were in constant need of repair—and the roofs! No day passed that Hadrian hadn’t heard the pounding of hammers on roofs. But in Brecken Dale the decay of time took a holiday.